Who's on First?
by Nehszriah
Summary: The Doctor is one of the best coaches in the game of baseball, but runs into something he never expected when his team hires a new GM. MLB baseball AU; M for swearing. Has nothing to do with the joke.
1. Chapter 1

The following is the product of trying to write while half asleep and having the TV on a ball game, because being an American Whovian who honestly adores sports is suffering. I _tried_ to make the story as user-friendly as possible though, since I understand not wanting a particular overarching setting to be a deterrent due to a lack of setting knowledge. If you have any questions about my logic, feel free to PM me. I don't bite.

Shout out to Kat (ffn:Kataoi/tumblr:randomthunk) for being so enthusiastic about this and making sure it didn't suck.

Rated M for language, which is not too terribly explicit but goes over the one-free-fuck limit.

The first chapter is already on my writing tumblr, and the next parts will be crossposted there as well.

* * *

Who's on First?

_One_

The Doctor rolled from his side onto his back, looking blankly up at the bit of ceiling above his bed. His arms, spread wide across the mattress, were cold. His shoulders, just out of reach of his blanket, were cold. His feet, poking out at the end of the covers, were cold. Everything that wasn't covered by blanket was damn fucking cold.

Of all the days he did not want to get out of bed.

He looked at the clock on the nightstand—twenty-five after four in the morning. It was always difficult for him to sleep when power hung in the balance, and lately the power was hanging rather precariously. Things were… how to put it… _tumultuous_ since he had flat-out quit his previous job as a hitting coach for the Rays in order to put in his resume to manage one of the new and experimental expansion teams. After years and years of knocking around the minor leagues and scrapping about for jobs that ended up being two-bit and behind-the-scenes, the Doctor finally had a chance to write his name down as someone who was actually in charge of something in an official capacity.

He was now a Major League Baseball manager. Now if only he knew the rest of the staff was going to be as solid as he was.

On the nightstand, his phone buzzed. The Doctor picked it up and looked at the caller—_Foreman_. He answered.

"Yes?"

"I am sorry to bug you so early in the morning, but I have some interesting news to share with you."

"Don't worry about it; I was already up."

"It sounds like the commissioner rejected the hiring of Smith."

The Doctor bolted upright, now sitting in his bed. "He **_what_**?!"

"Claims of nepotism according to Susan; she tried explaining that you're no relation of his, but he wouldn't have it. We apparently are only allowed to hire one John Smith a season and I'm sorry but you're it."

_Fucking hell_, the Doctor swore internally. He had met the other John Smith at an arts museum in New York City of all places, and the young man had instantly recognized him as a former player and longtime coach. This had impressed the Doctor, prompting what turned into a long conversation and discovering the bow-tied lad with an abnormally-strong jaw not only had the same name as him but was also great with numbers. No, he was _excellent_ at numbers. One of those fantasy league wizards with a keen eye and a sharp mind and an ability to see the potential in people: that's who he was. Before the day was out, the Doctor had been on the phone with Ben J. Foreman, owner of the yet-to-play Quad City Gallifreyans, and a contract had been drawn within the week. All it had been down to was making sure his application passed the league commissioner's approval, since the team was so new they were in this odd sort of probationary period.

"Did she try telling him I'm Scottish and he's English?"

"Nothing she said did any good," Foreman said. "Listen, John, he's going to appoint a general manager to the organization today. Then that'll be the end of that for the entire season."

"Can he even do that?"

"I don't know. What I do know is that we've gone through four GMs and our inaugural season hasn't even started yet. They want to see someone who will stay put."

"We didn't even have a full Spring training schedule because the suits were messing with our staff." The Doctor swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood up; there was no use going back to sleep at this point. "I understand they want to try experimenting with the whole idea of a smaller market but this is getting out of hand."

"I know, I know, but there's no turning back now, is there?" Foreman sighed. "I wanted you to be the first to know, since you're the one that had the most riding on Smith's approval. You don't exactly warm up to people easy."

"So when do we meet him?"

"Today, noon, at the TARDIS. Please wear a tie this time."

"Too punk for a tie, you know that."

"Be there, John."

The call cut and the Doctor was left listening to a dial tone.

"That tit," he grumbled, tossing the phone down on his bed and running his hand over his face. He wanted to tell Foreman that they were being had, but he couldn't even work up the ability to swear at the old man.

Four teams, each projected to supply small but loyal fanbases, were new this season. Knoxville, Montreal, Davenport, and Portland… they were experiments and pet projects of rich old men with money to burn and not a care in the world how they spent it. At least Ben Foreman, owner of the Quad City Gallifreyans, was halfway to wanting the venture to be a success and a legacy he'd be proud to pass on to his granddaughter. That child was clever, an unearthly sort of clever. If there was anyone else other than Ben the Doctor would follow, it was Susan. Was it because he personally taught the young woman everything she knew about baseball? The Doctor stepped into the shower and shook all thought from his mind.

Yeah, probably.

The Doctor took most of the morning to putter around his empty house; he really needed to get some furniture or a cat or something. March 27th, three days before Opening Day, and he was being assaulted with a new general manager. Fuck. He ate breakfast slowly while reading the _Quad City Times_. The sports section was an absolute mess of speculation and hype and distrust—everything he had thought it would be. Shit, should he call Martinez about that dropped swing? No, leave Martinez alone. After three straight weeks of screaming at the athletes he knew it was best to keep his promise and leave them alone until they opened, leaving him isolated from his players. The radio and television stations all regurgitated the same trite analysis and stunned confusion as to why four new teams were slapped together haphazardly, and why one of them sounded more like he should be managing a soccer team than a baseball team.

Football, it was called _football_, you brain-dead and loutish _children_, and frankly he knew the game of baseball better than anyone he knew. So what if he saw his first game working concessions at Shea at the age of fifteen? That was still forty years ago and forty years is a long time to dedicate one's self to a game. None of them had to study and scrape and absorb so much about something completely foreign to their upbringing that they turned into a literal miracle-worker with the analytical prowess akin to a man with a time machine by the age of thirty. So what if he was Scottish? That just meant he could drink them under the table _and_ destroy their playoff brackets before the All Star Game break. He wasn't called 'the Doctor' for nothing, after all.

…and to think there were people who wondered why he didn't just naturalize and get American citizenship already. Fuckall.

The Doctor finally got around to dressing, slacks and a shirt with a cardigan instead of a tie, and drove over to work. Even though he had found a house in Illinois, the Training and Recreation District's Innovative Stadium, or TARDIS, was over on the Iowa side of the river, on the border of civilization and edging on snow-crusted cornfields. The blue steel-and-concrete building was nowhere near a district of any sort, but Susan had really wanted to name it the TARDIS. It was a young person thing, he imagined, and shivered violently all the way to the offices.

"You are late," sang Jack Harkness, the ever-cheery marketing manager, as the Doctor walked by his door. The offices were small at this point, with a barebones staff and too few people to keep occupied. The Doctor popped his head into the cramped room.

"You wouldn't feel like coming in either if you had the rug pulled out from underneath you for the fourth time."

"_Again_? The Foremans didn't tell me I had to drop the 'Smith and Smith' campaign so soon."

"They were probably waiting on the replacement that's coming today from Mission Control. Fucking suits are out to sabotage us from the start."

An intern slid around the Doctor and brought Jack some coffee and a stack of papers. The man gave the intern a coy smile as she walked away, snickering.

"I hope you know this means I'm not going to sleep the next three days coming up with new promotional material, right?" Jack asked.

"As long as you don't sleep with an intern again on the fourth, I don't give a fuck," the Doctor grumbled. He left the office and quickly found his own. Papers and mail and whatnot littered his desk; he was going to have to figure out his lineup for Opening Day, send nonaggressive emails to those starting so they weren't broadsided, shuffle around his starters, make sure everything was flexible enough in case the new GM decided to trade off his men… it was a nightmare.

Thankfully, no one disturbed him until it was time to head on over to the board room. There, he found Ben Foreman, already sitting in his chair at the head of the table. The Doctor had immense respect for the man, having become like a second son to him thanks to years better left to ancient memory. Foreman was the one who found Smith scrounging around Shea with no money and no home and such a dislike for what he ran away from that he couldn't even give his real name. The Doctor would do anything for him, hence why he ditched his last job at the drop of a hat despite the snow and uncertainty that came attached.

"You didn't tell Jack," the Doctor said as he took a seat next to his boss. Foreman, dressed in his laughably-old-fashioned suit, shrugged.

"You didn't wear a tie."

"I'm meeting a common man, not the future King." The Doctor looked around the room. "Just us?"

"Susan is picking up the replacement from the airport right now, and I've got Mickey and Jaime running around ragged as-is," Foreman sighed. "Jack's only out of the loop because I want him to enjoy his last hours of fun before the storm." He poured himself some coffee from the carafe on the table and drank pensively.

"You're worried," the Doctor said.

"Maybe. When I put in an offer to build an expansion team somewhere, I thought it would be when they finally decided to expand internationally, not in the middle of farmland."

"They gave Montreal their team back."

"Only so that they'd stop trying to swarm Rogers Centre," Foreman scoffed. The door to the board room opened and Susan walked in alone. She went to her grandfather and gave him a hug hello.

"Oswald will be in shortly; has to get past Jack first."

"The second guy didn't make it past Jack."

"I've got a good feeling about this one," Susan said, taking her seat on the other side her grandfather. She looked the Doctor dead in the eyes, holding his gaze. "Now behave, alright? We're stuck with Oswald until at least the end of the season and the last thing we need is the two of you fighting."

"As long as this guy is capable and lets me do my own thing, I'm sure we'll get on," the Doctor grumbled. He folded his arms and leaned back in his chair, just as another woman came walking into the board room. Did they need to replace _more_ interns? Christ, Jack went through a lot of them. "Oh, good, you here to take notes for Harkness for his campaign so he doesn't have to show?"

The woman looked at the Doctor and raised her eyebrow. "That friendly gentleman down the hall? No, but at least you didn't ask if I was here to get you more coffee." English… northern English by the sounds of it… not even thirty and built small enough to blend in at the local middle schools.

Confused, the Doctor and Foreman both looked at Susan. She smiled and leaned into the table. "Grandfather, Doctor, I'd like to introduce Clara Oswald, our new General Manager straight from Headquarters."

"How do you do?" Clara smiled, holding out her hand. The Doctor sat there, staring slightly slack-jawed and very brow-furrowed at her, while Foreman stood up and walked over to shake her hand. Even the relatively short old man towered over her.

"Glad to make your acquaintance, Miss Oswald. I'm Ben, the owner, and this is our manager John. Everyone calls him…"

"The Doctor, yes, I was told," Clara said. She held out her hand towards the Doctor again, expecting him to shake it. "What? Is something wrong?"

Yes, actually, there were several things very wrong, but the Doctor was unsure of how to answer that without sounding like he possessed the largest double standard in the world.

"You're not what I expected," the Doctor answered. That was safe. That could have meant any number of things.

"Clara's a computer whiz, great with numbers and programs and things," Susan said. "She's got an eye for talent too; last year she interned with the Yankees organization and was actually the mastermind behind the Nicks-Perez-Batavia trade."

"No… really…? I don't believe it," the Doctor marveled. Clara dropped her hand down to her side.

"What, because I'm a girl? Because I'm English? Because I'm young?"

"If I had a problem with girls in baseball, I wouldn't be in this organization," the Doctor said, gesturing vaguely in Susan's direction. "The guy whose job you took was a Midlands boy, and yeah he's still a boy since he was your age, so I don't have problems with the English or youth."

"Then what's the matter?"

"…I just don't understand why the commissioner would send _you_, is all."

"What did you expect? A cowboy? One of the reasons I was chosen was because I'd fit in, being that Mr. Foreman's parents were English, you're Scottish, as is your social media manager, not to mention the fact your team name sounds like some sort of Irish bogeyman…"

"Honestly, I think it is," Foreman pondered. "It was just a name given to us by the league. It makes less sense than the Phillies' mascot."

"See? I've got the credentials, I fit in, so what's the matter?"

"Christ, you are _bossy_," the Doctor scowled.

"Was your Midlands boy bossy too or was he a _go-getter_ like boys tend to be, hmm?"

"Oh, come off your high horse; yes I was expecting a tall, broad-shouldered man with an accent from the Americas and old enough to have a kid in the high school down the road. That doesn't exactly mean I'd like him either."

"Both of you, calm down," Foreman warned. Unfortunately, that fell on deaf ears.

"Oh, and who would you have liked?"

"The Midlands boy."

"…and why him?"

"…because I actually knew I'd get on with him, unlike you… you little…"

"Uncle John, _stop_," Susan ordered, slamming her hands on the table and standing up. Both the Doctor and Clara snapped their heads in her direction, the latter confused and the former indignant. "Now I am still President and CEO of this ball club and if either of you have that big of a problem with what the commissioner has decided on I will purposely file an injunction on both of you. Do I make myself clear?"

Silence permeated the room, so heavy and thick the click of the furnace could be heard through the air vents.

"Good. Now, shake her hand, Doctor, and you can be on your way," Susan frowned. "I'm sure you still have a load of work to do."

The Doctor grunted and stood up, towering over Clara more than Foreman did. He shook her hand brusquely and stormed out of the room.

It just wasn't _right_.

* * *

It took the rest of the day for Clara to become acquainted with the rest of the major staff members of the Gallifreyans' front office. Everyone else was warm and friendly, very much unlike the Doctor, and there wasn't very many of them. Compared to the Yankees' front office, which was packed to capacity with people, the Gallifreyans only had the barebones essentials and little else. In fact, they barely had what the new general manager would consider bare bones. Susan claimed it was the nature of the small-market ball club, but Clara had a difficult time wholly believing that. She had seen more attention given to college teams though that was neither here nor there. By the end of the day she was sitting in her new office, looking out over the nearby fields.

'_It must be pretty in the summer_,' she thought. What grew here? Corn? Wheat? Would the fields remain fallow for the season? All she knew is that she was in a different place than this time the year prior, when she was surrounded by the tall skyscrapers and city lights of New York City. America was bigger than she expected… well, to say it was bigger was not wholly the truth. More like no matter how far west she went, the vastness of everything boggled her mind. She knew of places similar to this in England, but they could be crossed in a few hours by car. America could take days, weeks, to cross properly—no wonder things were larger here.

A knock on her door and Clara spun her chair to face it. "Who is it?" The door opened and the Doctor came in, prompting Clara's face to fall. "Come to apologize?"

"No. I came to give you this," he said, placing a piece of paper on the empty desk. Clara picked it up and looked at it; handwritten directions and an interestingly detailed map.

"What's this?"

"Directions to my house from your hotel," the Doctor said plainly. "We need to go over the active roster, as well as our farm system and who we have options on. I also want to discuss your management background and what direction you're thinking about for my players."

"Can't we do that here?" Clara asked.

"Harkness is officially in Panic Mode and here after-hours is the last place you want to be when he's panicking."

"My hotel has a restaurant, with private booths."

"This is a work meeting, not a date. Besides, a crusty old man like me going to a young woman's hotel room? The media here hate me enough as it is."

"You coming to me is suspicious but me coming to you isn't?" Clara was skeptical.

"If they know who you are, then they know it's a work meeting. If they don't know, then it is a voluntary get-together on your part that no way looks forced by me," the Doctor said. He tapped the desk with one of his long and bony fingers. "Eight o'clock. My cell phone number's on the back."

"Oh, yes, I should probably give you my mobile too." Clara took a business card from inside her bag and handed it to the Doctor. "You know that's what we say."

"What…?"

"Mobile. We call it a mobile," Clara said. The Doctor rolled his eyes and shoved his hands in his pockets.

"I've experienced the past forty years of technological breakthroughs surrounded by cell phones and home French presses and SUVs that take gasoline and I will call them what I want. Now are you going to come tonight and try to act like we're going to be working together closely for at least the next six months or are you going to force me to make gossip column headlines for visiting your hotel?"

"Fine, eight o'clock," Clara grumbled. She watched as the Doctor silently spun on his heel and left the office. Susan had warned him that he would be the most abrasive, but she had no idea that he would be sour enough for the whole office.

Shaking her head, Clara gathered up her things and left the TARDIS. She ate dinner at the restaurant on the bottom floor of the hotel before going back up to her room and unpacking some more of her things. Finding a place to live was certainly high on the priority list, she decided. After making sure her clothes made it through the flight mostly unwrinkled, Clara took her work bag and the hand-written directions and set off in the rental car Susan had left her with.

It took a while to find, but Clara was finally able to locate the Doctor's house. It was blue, just like the TARDIS, and sat on the outskirts of some town she already forgot the name of. A copse of trees hid the two-story structure from the surrounding farmland, making it well suited for what seemed like a secluded grouch of a man. Clara parked the car and walked up to the door. The Doctor opened it before she even had the chance to knock, having been waiting patiently for her.

"Come in," he said, half-ordering. Clara stepped into the house cautiously, careful to take in her surroundings. The walls were white, the floors were walnut, the ceilings vaulted, and it echoed something fierce; barring the stools by the kitchen bar and an armchair near a television set, the house was nearly devoid of decoration and furnishings. Some cardboard boxes sat in a small pile in the living room, a couple having been opened and picked through.

"Your wife is moving in later, I take it?" Clara asked. The Doctor looked at her, expressionless.

"I'm not married."

"Oh, I'm sorry, it's just that your ring…"

"Rather, I used to be married and the ring keeps distractions at bay," the Doctor said. He began to walk into the kitchen. "Tea or coffee?"

"Tea, please." Clara sat down on one of the stools and watched the Doctor put together tea from across the kitchen island. He silently passed a steaming mug over the counter and made himself some instant coffee. "So… um… live here long?"

"Three months."

"Ah. So no wife, but any kids?"

"No. I was young, but not stupid."

This made the hair on Clara's neck bristle. "Children aren't stupid."

"You just say that because you're still one yourself."

"I say that because I actually have a degree in early childhood development," Clara snapped. "I may have brokered that big trade, but I came on for the Yankees to work with their children's promotional material."

"Then why suddenly switch to operations?" the Doctor asked. Clara could hear in his voice that he was trying to be nice, but was far from being any good at it.

"I was in the right place at the right time, I guess," she answered. "I'm really good at it. I love working with kids but this… this is where I excel." She put down her tea and began to take a laptop computer and a large binder file out of her bag. Flipping open the binder, she thumbed the divider tabs until she came to the one marked _Gallifreyans_.

"You have paper files on all the teams?" the Doctor mused. "Here I thought you'd be all digital with the computer and a tablet and your phone."

"All thirty-four; paper doesn't need recharging," Clara said idly, paying more attention to the information she was running her finger over than anything else. "Now, let's talk the bullpen—I'm thinking we might need to consider optioning Kanzaka if his ERA is anything like Spring Training."

"Clark's just a nervous kid; all he needs is a good couple bollockings and he'll be a star," the Doctor responded. Clara looked up from the binder, unconvinced.

She knew it was inevitable, but that was how the entire meeting went. As soon as Clara suggested one thing, the Doctor turned it on its head and tried to do another. They were only ever really able to agree on a couple of things: one being that their closer was a primadonna, and the other that they did not see eye-to-eye on everything else.

After finishing off her sixth cup of tea, Clara looked at the clock on her computer and groaned. "Oh no… it's two in the morning…"

"Is it? I can go until at least four. Not ready for the major leagues of sleep loss, are you?"

"No, not that… I just need to rest or it will come back to bite me later," Clara frowned. "The past twenty-four hours did involve flying halfway across the country to be paraded around the office. I napped before coming over, but that's not enough."

The Doctor groaned, rubbing the back of his neck. "Do you need to stay here?" Clara looked at him, blindsided.

"What…?"

"Do you need to stay here until it's light enough to drive back? I don't know if you're the right person for this job, but that doesn't mean I'm a cruel man."

Clara paused and thought about it. She hadn't even been at her new job for a full twenty-four hours but so much had happened that even someone as collected and level-headed such as herself had no choice to be even slightly overwhelmed. Susan had said he was nice enough, given time, and this was certainly a better way to end a work meeting than when they first met that afternoon. It was a genuine, if reluctant, nice gesture.

"Thank you, that's very kind," she replied. The Doctor nodded and walked over to the armchair, allowing himself to fall into it.

"Good night then."

"…and where am I supposed to sleep? The floor?" Clara asked, a mixture of confused and insulted. The Doctor merely pointed upwards at the ceiling.

"Bed's up there and the door locks from the inside. Good night."

Clara stared at the back of the armchair, cautious. He didn't seem to move anymore, so she crept through the house and found the stairs. There were three bedrooms, but only one had an actual bed in it. The door indeed locked from the inside, with no keyhole out that would make the entire thing redundant. Clara looked around as she hung her jacket on the back of a chair and took off her already-loose tie—it was just as sparse as the rest of the house. At least the other rooms had boxes and totes and promise of life and impending personality. This room at least should have felt lived-in, but it wasn't despite the Doctor's claims. Three months was a long time to keep a room as spartan as this. She finished undressing and crawled into the still-made side of the bed. Before putting her phone alarm on, Clara sent Susan a text message.

'I know you're asleep, but if I don't show up for work in the morning have them check the wood by the Doctor's house,' it read. She locked the phone and put it on the floor next to her.

At least the bed was comfortable.

A few hours passed and, after checking to make sure she was alive and not dismembered in the woods, Clara quickly dressed and went down the stairs back to the main of the house. The Doctor was still in his armchair, a blanket covering his entire body.

"Doctor…?" Clara asked quietly. The mass of blanket did not reply, though the area Clara assumed to be his chest was rising and falling softly. Still breathing, okay, but she needed to get back to her hotel where she could freshen up and change clothes. "Thank you, for letting me stay. I'll be going now."

After leaving a note and gathering up her things, Clara quietly left the house and got in her car. She made it back to the hotel without a problem and quickly showered and changed her clothes. By nine-thirty she was sitting in her office, writing up emails and taking notes on minor league prospects.

_Play it normal. Just pretend that was not the weirdest night you've had since your first semester at university and it'll be fine. He could have had kids your age, for goodness sake… probably missing the idea of being fatherly and chivalrous a quarter century too late…_

A knock at the door made Clara jump back from her wandering thoughts, inhaling sharply. "Come in." Susan entered the room with a concerned look on her face.

"Are you alright?" she asked. "You didn't really think you'd get chopped up into tiny bits, did you?"

"I just wanted to be sure," Clara sighed. "Hey, can you please get Mrs. Smith-Jones to send me a medical report on all those who were treated for anything while down at Spring Training? The emails I sent keep on bouncing back."

"No problem," Susan smiled. She turned around to leave the room again, but paused and looked over her shoulder. "Clara?"

"Yeah?"

"…oh, it's nothing. I'm just glad you're fitting in."

"Thanks."


	2. Chapter 2

I know that there hasn't been that much time between the first chapter and this one, but I had it ready.

Please drop me a line and let me know what you think. Feedback is always appreciated.

* * *

_Two_

Clara had only really known about the game of baseball for about two years now, but she was certain that getting ejected during your first game as manager probably wasn't the best way to make an entrance.

Granted, the umpire _was_ wrong. Even Clara could see he blew the call from her spot up in the executive skybox. The way in which the Doctor stormed out onto the field and got very red in the face and shouted loud enough for her to hear did not help his position and the umpire ignored his demand for an instant replay in lieu of tossing him _and_ the poor shortstop that had been too slow in his sprint out of the game. The only response the Foremans had, however, was to laugh.

"I don't think it's very funny," Clara frowned. She watched the Doctor fume off the field, giving the ejected player a shove towards the clubhouse stairs. "This was Javier's major league debut too."

"He's just like that," Foreman smiled. "If I know John, which I do, there's nothing to worry about. He just feels the need to assert himself early on to make himself seem tough and dark and formidable."

"Well, _I'm_ going to go talk to him and make sure he's not scaring Javier half to death," Clara said. She stood up and began to walk over towards the door.

"What the Doctor needs isn't a scolding," Susan said.

"I'm going anyways."

"Then don't say we didn't warn you."

'_He __**shoved**__ a player_,' Clara thought as she made her way down the corridor, her heels clicking on the concrete floor. '_That is unacceptable. I don't care how much of an old boys' club this sport is… I am not going to stand for this_.' She found the elevator that went down to the clubhouse level and waited for it patiently. The couple of gofers that were on the elevator when it finally opened jumped at the sight of her—the petite ball of anger that seemed to bore holes with her glare—and jumped out to allow her the entire space for herself. Clara rode it down with her mind a million miles a minute on what she was going to shout as soon as she found the Doctor.

As soon as the elevator opened, Clara stormed out into the hall and found the clubhouse. She barged in, which caused Javier, the ejected player, to nearly fall off his chair in surprise. He was only halfway dressed, with his shirt and hat discarded in his locker and only one sock still on.

"Oh, I'm sorry Javier," Clara said, stepping back half a step when she realized that yes this was still a locker room. "I saw what happened on the field; he didn't hurt you, did he?"

"Who…?" the young man asked as he took off his second sock. His Latin accent was thick, but did by no means control his grasp of the English language. "No one hurt me. I'm fine… physically. It's my pride that's hurt more than anything."

"Are you sure?" Clara asked. He, like about half of the team, were younger than her by more than a few years, the realization of which had set off something of the sisterly nature in her the past couple of days as she had introduced herself to the team. They were a varied bunch, but they took the quasi-adoption with the same general ease.

"I'm sure. It's the Doctor you should be worried about. He swore a lot and I heard some crashing over in the other room," Javier said, pointing over his shoulder. Clara thanked him and walked between the rows of lockers, headed towards the lounge. There she saw one of the long foldable tables that had been set up and filled with snacks had been overturned and everything was now splattered over the floor. The Doctor sat perched on the arm of one of the sofas, angrily munching on an apple and still in full uniform with his high socks and blue windbreaker with the number twelve emblazoned on the back. Clara straightened her back and puffed out her chest before closing the distance between them and catching his stare.

"What is _wrong_ with you?" she hissed. "I could hear you from the box."

"It's not your fucking problem, darling," the Doctor muttered, breaking the eye contact. Clara folded her arms and tapped her foot.

"_'Not your fucking problem, darling'_? What, are we back in the Fifties? Do I really need to explain modern professionalism to a full-grown man?"

"This is my job, now let me do it," the Doctor replied. He was quiet, but there was hint of a storm rumbling underneath in his voice. "Go back to your heated skybox and lofty ambitions where you belong."

"Doctor, you just got ejected from your first game as manager on ESPN. That's _national television_. The only reason this clubhouse isn't swarming with media is because they agreed prior to the game even starting that they're not allowed in until postgame. They're going to be all over you, all over me, all over Javier, all over Foreman and Susan… all because you couldn't control yourself in front of an audience eleven million strong."

"You think I don't know that?"

"I don't know what you think to be honest." Clara looked around the room; it was blue and white and grey and a bit of green, like the rest of the TARDIS, and was decorated with many a circular pattern on the walls and the carpet and the numerous couches and armchairs. A phone hung up on the wall behind her. She went and picked it up, hitting a speed-dial number.

"Park Operations, Smith-Jones here."

"Hey Mickey, it's Clara. Can you spare a couple janitors real quick? We've got an emergency down in the clubhouse."

"Nothing's broken, is there? I've been watching from my office; is there any_one_ broken? You'd have to call Martha for that."

Clara licked her lips and sighed. "Worst is some platters and a nice lunch spread. I just need it cleaned up before the press is allowed in."

"Ah, gotcha. I'll send someone over in a jif."

"Thanks." Clara hung up the phone and turned around to see that the Doctor had decided to lean back far enough to fall backwards onto the sofa cushions, his legs still dangling off the side of the armrest. She went back over to him and for once looked down at his face. "Luckily we've got some cleaning crew to spare."

"Mickey's a good lad; knows how to prepare for the unexpected."

"…which is something you should really learn how to do as well, Doctor," Clara said. "Those boys who you spend half your days yelling at while in some cathartic trance… I have a feeling they're going to be a lot like my brothers for the next half a year, and if you don't stop flat-out being a prat to them for no apparent reason other than a stereotypical Scottish temper I will get the commissioner to give you the sack."

"Aren't you a bold one," the Doctor said flatly. He swung his legs over and sat up properly. "Do you really think that you're going to get anywhere in your job by seeing them as forty-odd brothers? Your job is to trade away and option their livelihoods, mine is to turn them into a family. You asked if I had kids a couple days ago, right? Those are my sons, because that's what I do."

"Fathers shouldn't yell aggressively colorful swears at their kids and shove them and threaten with very public and violent promises of abuse. I didn't grow up with brothers, but I did grow up with a father and let me tell you that you are not acting like one right now. You should be an example for them."

"Have you actually ever _met_ a professional athlete, let alone someone in sports at all? I'm nothing compared to some of the arses out there, who wouldn't even _pretend_ you were worth wasting breath over and would just backhand you. Leave me alone; protecting your brothers is not your primary concern, daughter dearest," the Doctor sneered. Clara leaned back with a disgusted look on her face.

"Like hell I'm your daughter; I've already got a dad."

"Then what do you want to be? Hmm?"

"Let's try for someone you listen to and respect at work. Is that too much to ask?" It was then that the janitors came and started to quickly clean up the mess. Clara leaned in towards the Doctor, lowering her voice. "Do not forget that I came here by the commissioner's orders. No doubt he's going to fine you, and heavily."

"Without a doubt," the Doctor shrugged. Aware of the watchful eyes of the janitors, Clara leaned in closer to whisper in his ear.

"He wants you gone. You get one strike, John Smith, before you are thrown from the league itself."

"That's Foreman's call, not the commissioner's and certainly not yours."

"Sounds like someone forgot to read the Terms and Conditions and just clicked through," Clara whispered. "He has that power here, as well as in the other three expansion teams. The only difference between here and, say, Knoxville is that their staff members actually behave like they were raised by civilized society. I'll make sure he doesn't fine you too harshly, if that's his goal, and that this doesn't count towards your strike, but you have to do something for me first."

The Doctor looked at Clara and tried to decipher her expression. "What?"

"Issue a full apology on-air, make it look sincere, and then do nothing but praise your team. Not a single bad word about the umpire and none of those euphemisms you were tossing around on the field. Behave for the rest of the day, because you are not a bad man. You are better than this."

"Miss Oswald…?" one of the janitors asked timidly. Clara stood at her full height and looked at the young woman about her age, forcing herself to smile nicely.

"What's wrong?"

"What do you want us to do with this table? It's broken."

Clara snapped her head back in the direction of the Doctor. "You _broke_ it?!"

"No!" the janitor gasped. Clara looked back at her, confused. "Mr. Smith didn't break it—this table was already not doing that well."

"Then why was it used?"

"It was the last one we had and there wasn't time to buy a new one; Mickey said it would be alright, as long as we kept the load light."

Clara looked down at the mess on the floor: bread, tortilla chip-crisp things, napkins, paper plates… the heaviest-looking item there was the remains of a cake. It had all been part of a spread that was there to let the athletes celebrate despite any sort of diet they might be on. She looked at the table along the other wall and saw that was where there the meats had been placed; there were heavy pots as well filled with rice and stew and other comfort foods, including a bowl of fruit… she looked at the Doctor.

"I think you're the one who owes me an apology now," he shrugged, finishing off his apple and tossing it directly into the oversized bin the janitors had wheeled into the room. He stood up and grinned at her.

"I'm sorry, Doctor," Clara said through clenched teeth. The Doctor chuckled.

"You're right; I'm not a bad man, just someone trying to do his job like the rest of us in this room. I'm not going to apologize, because I cannot take it back, but I will praise my team. I was going to do it anyways."

"No more shoving," Clara warned.

"Don't coddle him. He can shove back if he wants, and he knows it. We're all adults here so don't threaten me."

"I won't threaten you as long as you don't threaten our boys."

"Oh, they're _our_ boys now? That's good to know," the Doctor shrugged. He looked over at the entrance to see Javier standing there, staring at them nervously. "Hey, can't you see Mam and Dad are trying to have a conversation here?"

"Mum and Dad?! The nerve!" Clara gasped in horror. She spun on her heel and stomped out of the locker room. As she left, she tried very hard to not concentrate on the fact she could hear the Doctor and Javier both burst into hysteric laughter.

Susan _had_ warned her.

* * *

The first game written in the record books for the Quad City Gallifreyans was a loss. After the Doctor had been ejected, the team fell apart and it was all the bench coach had in him to calm them down enough to keep the run deficit to five. True to his word the Doctor did nothing but talk up the team to the press after the game. He blamed himself for their panic and said that he expected nothing but great things from them, that a single loss did not make a season, that sort of thing. It satisfied Clara, who saw an extended recording of the interview later on as she got ready for bed that night. She had it on in the background and she only idly listened to the nearly-empty-sounding words until she heard an interviewer ask a question that caught her undivided attention.

'So, what is it like in life off the field? Are you taking bets as to how many general managers you'll go through this year?'

'Ach, no,' the Doctor laughed. 'Our newest, Clara Oswald, she's not my first choice but she's staying put.'

'Does she seem capable of working with the players' contracts and negotiations? Word is that she's almost completely inexperienced.'

'Your mam ruining a soufflé doesn't make her bad at baking, nor does a successful soufflé make her a master baker, but you can't make anything good unless you practice first.'

'You make it sound like Clara Oswald is the Gallifreyans' mother.'

'Hey, the boys are lucky to have both a mam and a dad; most teams just have two dads and all that testosterone, you know, just gunks up the system if you aren't too careful. No offense meant of course—families do come in all shapes these days.'

The others in the locker room chuckled at the remark, but Clara growled angrily at her television set. She turned it off and tossed the remote onto the other hotel bed.

_How dare he! The audacity!_

Clara's phone mockingly chirped on the nightstand and she picked it up. _Susan_.

'good night mom', the text read. Clara rolled her eyes and climbed into bed, not even bothering to send a message back.

This was going to be a long season.

* * *

It had been more than a month since Opening Day and things had been going relatively smoothly. The Gallifreyans as a team were not doing too terribly—five games back in the division, which was respectable given their first-year status and it being so early in the season—and the entire operation, from top staff to players to the lower-level staff, was beginning to mesh together and become a well-oiled machine. The Doctor had not let up on his angry persona on-field, though had decided it was best to not make it a habit of getting tossed from the game. He still scowled and snapped and shouted and was generally what the media began to refer to as an ornery old cuss despite not even being that old. That had been his plan all along, to magnify and distort the reputation he already had gained for himself, and everything was working splendidly as he was being referred to as not only an ornery old cuss, but hard-nosed and no-nonsense and, by his own admission, lucky to have a other half that young and lively and very easy to fluster.

It was a rare off-day, making the TARDIS a scene of peace and serenity broken only by the offices and the occasional athlete wandering in and out to exercise. The Doctor had been sitting around in his downstairs office, one that he kept in the clubhouse that he used when giving game day interviews and if he needed to shout at someone in private without losing ire in the trek upstairs. With the Foremans both gone to New Jersey for a meeting, he had little to do but sit back and relax. The tartan-jacketed Jaime McCrimmon, their social media manager, was there relaxing as well, trying to convince him to go back to Scotland the next time they had an extended break.

"No, I'm not going," the Doctor said, shaking his head. "I love being Scottish, but I swore I wouldn't go back until I was dragging someone along with me."

"Aye, but it's changed _so much_ since you left," Jaime groaned. "I try to go back at least every other year so I'm not a stranger in my own hometown. You can come with me if it makes you feel better. How do you ever expect to play tour guide if you haven't been home since the Seventies?"

"Oh, I'll think of something. Besides, if I go back with you that'll give the wrong impression and we're not about to do that."

Jaime laughed at that, his voice echoing out into the sparse clubroom. He laughed so hard that neither of them could hear the clubroom doors slam open and the angry click of heels on the floor until Clara was standing in the doorway to the office, the ear of one of the rookie pitchers in one hand (with the rest of the pitcher still attached to it, half-dressed and covered in blue body paint) and her other balled into a fist.

"Doctor, control your boys," Clara hissed, tossing the young man into the office. "I do not need to walk into my office and have this jumping out at me."

"Oh, so when they do well on the field they're our boys but when they have a bit of fun around here they're my boys? I'm not sure I understand your commitment level here, dear."

Clara's nostrils flared and her eyes narrowed. "Doctor, I'm warning you…"

"…as you like to do…"

"…keep the boyish antics to yourselves. Just because I _work_ above a locker room doesn't mean my office has to be one too."

"Oh, it's only a bit of fun, like he said," Jaime chuckled. Clara glared at him.

"Don't you have some teenagers to stalk?"

"Hmm…?"

"You know, your job, being online?"

Jaime shrugged. "Oh, aye."

Clara rolled her eyes and left, leaving the three men to snicker to themselves in the office.

"How long did it take for her to realize you were there, Marc?" the Doctor asked.

"At least six or seven minutes," the rookie giggled. "She screamed so loud that Harkness ran in to make sure nothing was wrong."

"Impressive," Jaime nodded. He gave the young man a high five. "Did you get it on camera?"

"You kidding? This is going online. C'mon, I'll help you upload it. You know, I really got to teach you how to do this."

"That'd be nice." Jaime chuckled. He left with Marc and the Doctor was alone.

After doing some actual work, the Doctor decided it was a good idea to leave early and go home. It was a Meeting Night and he had to make sure he was prepared. Every few days or so, Clara would come over to his house, sit on his new couch, eat his snacks, and shoot a bunch of questions at him about the players and how they were doing and his opinions on this guy's arm and that guy's swing and whether or not the minor leaguer from Japan is overcoming the language barrier. She pushed him and his knowledge so much more than what was normal that he was almost required to isolate himself just to prepare for the onslaught of questions that would come out of the three or four hours she was there.

He drove back home and began the mental fortifications. Dinner was some microwaved dish as he looked over reports from the Triple-A team rehabbing an outfielder with an abnormally-sore hamstring. The Doctor became so engrossed in his reports that he did not even realize that Clara was edging on half an hour late. His phone rang and he answered without looking.

"Smith."

"Doctor? It's Clara. I'm going to be a little late…" The Doctor snapped out of his trance at the sound of her voice—it was shaking. She was scared.

_Fuck_.

"What's wrong? Are you alright?"

"Yeah, I'm… no… yeah, well, I'm not hurt."

"What happened?" the Doctor asked. He stood up and grabbed his car keys, headed for the door.

"I got clipped at a light. It's nothing serious. I'm just shaken."

"Where are you?"

"That restaurant between the one highway and the other… Fields'? Yeah, Fields' Restaurant, in the parking lot. They had to tow my car, so I'm gonna get a cab once I hang up with you."

"No, you stay there, I'll pick you up."

"…but…"

"I'm halfway out the door anyways, and it's quicker. Just stay put."

"Doctor…"

"If I were Susan, you'd wait," the Doctor said, closing the front door behind him. There was a guilty silence on the other end as he walked to his car. "Fifteen minutes, okay?"

"Okay."

The Doctor got into his car and had to make a conscious effort to not speed enough to get caught. He still made it there in about ten minutes, pulling up next to a visibly shaken Clara who immediately got in the car. Her makeup was smeared from crying and she clutched her bag so tightly the Doctor was wondering how her hand hadn't cramped up yet.

"Do you want me to take you home?" the Doctor asked. Clara shook her head, looking at the dashboard in front of her.

"We have work that needs to be done," she said quietly.

"Clara, you haven't brokered a trade yet, and the only swaps you made with the Triple-A club have been due to injuries. I think you can afford to rest."

"No. If we stop now, something will slip by us unnoticed. Please, let's get to work."

"Okay," the Doctor sighed. He put the car into gear and drove back home, the ride a silent one.

As soon as they reached the house, Clara went and immediately sat down on the couch and began to spread out her reports. The Doctor walked over and closed her laptop just as she got ready to log in.

"No," he said. "We'll work, but only after you calm down, okay?"

"I'm fine, Doctor."

"That's a lie. Now put that on the table and don't touch it, alright?"

Clara looked at him, seemingly not sure how to process everything. She put her laptop and binder on the coffee table and sat crosslegged on the couch with her back to the cushions. Satisfied, the Doctor left her alone and went into the kitchen area. He put together a pot of tea, occasionally looking across the house to see if Clara was still not working. She remained still, which was only slightly comforting, barely moving the entire time the Doctor was in the kitchen. He brought out two mugs of tea and handed one to Clara before sitting down next to her.

"You haven't been in a car accident before this, have you?" the Doctor asked, sipping his tea. Clara shook her head silently. "Scary, huh?"

Clara placed her mug down on the table and brought her knees up to her chin. "It was, yeah. The guy that hit me didn't even stop."

"Sounds like my accident," the Doctor said. He looked over at Clara, who was now staring at him. "When I was about twenty-two, not long after my divorce, I got piss drunk after a bad loss and almost didn't notice what I was doing until this truck slammed into the back of my Camaro while I was crossing an intersection. Someone else who saw said it wasn't my fault, but it still totaled my car and snapped my pitching arm and made it so I couldn't play again."

"You used to _play_ baseball?" Clara asked.

"Back when the majors weren't as much of a circus, I was able to get into a Double-A club in an open tryout. My arm fully healed, but something up here told me I shouldn't play anymore, that it was a sign," the Doctor explained, tapping the side of his head. "So, the team took me back but I worked with the coaching staff instead. Always had the mind for it, the whole game; it was a perfect fit."

"Do you ever regret not being able to play more? I mean… is that why you shout so much?"

"Nah. Lots of people thought I was angry because of it though. I just seem angry because I'm good at acting angry. Throw a 'fuck' around every now and then and Americans either back down or throw the first punch." The Doctor sipped more of his tea. "I'm not a bad man, but I'm not a good man either. It's easy to make me a villain. Everyone loves to hate a good villain."

The two of them sat there silently for a few minutes, drinking tea and staring at bits of the room in front of them. Clara broke the silence with a sniffle that very quickly broke into a sob.

"Doctor… I was… really… scared…" she cried. "I've been… really scared." The Doctor slid the half-cushion down the couch and put an arm around her shoulder. She leaned into his side, shaking.

"It's okay. We're all scared sometimes."

"No, it's not okay. Why do you think I'm so thorough with these meetings? I'm scared I won't know something and that I'll screw up. My job is riding on my knowledge of a sport I didn't know anything about five years ago. No one thinks I can do this."

"I got in that Double-A club on four years of baseball knowledge and a shit run," the Doctor said. Clara looked up at him, frowning.

"Yeah, well, no one sees you as flippant and bossy."

"You're not flippant, and there's nothing wrong with bossy every once in a while. I'm just wondering why you thought it was a good idea to use me for my extensive player knowledge for your own gain like that."

"I didn't see it as using you, because, well, you just seem like you were being really helpful, especially during our first work meeting."

The Doctor laughed. "I've been called many things, but 'helpful' is a new one."

"You're different at your home than you are at work," Clara explained. "At work you're an arse and hardheaded, but here, you're not that at all."

"Keep work and home separate; not many people do that these days."

"Well, it's weird." Clara rested her head back down on the Doctor's shoulder, trying to normalize her breathing. "I never know what to think of you, Doctor."

"No one does," he replied, resting his chin on top of her head. He sat like that for a few seconds before his face went red-hot.

'_Wait a second, what are you doing_,' he thought to himself. '_She's just a kid… a shaken and scared kid. Fuck, she could have been your kid. All she needs is to know someone's there that understands… none of this stuff._' He took his arm off her shoulder and slid back to where he had been sitting before.

"We're pretty different, you and me," he said. "What connects us is a job in a sport we've got a natural disadvantage in and I'm willing to stick together for that. I don't have the same experiences, but I can help you with yours. The game… it's worth it."

Clara looked at him with a residual sniffle. "Yeah?"

"Forty years and I haven't fallen out of love with her yet."

"Forty years?" Clara giggled. "How old _are_ you?"

"Fifty-five, for your information," the Doctor replied, just a smidgeon insulted. "It was love at first sight; my teenaged heart couldn't handle it."

"Talk about dramatic," Clara sighed. She reached over to the table and grabbed her laptop with one hand and her tea with the other. "Now, I think it's about time we get started on work again or it'll be after midnight before I get out of here." The Doctor smiled and nodded.

They had to stick together.

* * *

Clara sighed as she laid down in her own bed, feeling much safer and calmer than she had been a few hours before. The Doctor had given her a ride back to the house she was renting and promised to pick her up again on the way into work. She was starting to feel sore and achy—whiplash, most like—so sleep was going to be a sweet release.

Not long after putting down her phone on the nightstand and settling in, Clara's phone rang. This late at night? She rolled over and answered it.

"Clara! Grandfather just got off the phone with the Doctor! Are you okay?!"

"Yeah Susan, I'm fine. A bit sore, but it's okay."

"Oh, good." A sigh. "I surprised you called the Doctor though. I thought you could barely stand the man long enough to sit through those meetings of yours. The last thing I thought you'd do is ask him for help."

"In a work capacity he's a nutter and a prat but stop talking about work and he's completely different, you know?"

"That's a good sign; this means he's accepted the fact you're staying. Get some sleep, Clara. See you in a couple days."

"See you then."

Clara hung up the phone and put it back. She stared at the device before closing her eyes and rolling over.

_He's accepted me. That's good._


	3. Chapter 3

Here is the final chapter of what has been a very long and personally-involved baseball AU. I am so glad people like it despite the length and setting. It just makes me very happy. Thank you to everyone who read, to Azertyrobaz for reviewing, to all those who may leave a review in the future, and, again, Kataoi for being my filter/proofer.

* * *

_Three_

It was her first major trade done as a general manager.

The Twins were eyeing two junior members of the Gallifreyans' bullpen, but were being shrewd with what they were willing to offer in exchange. Clara haggled intensely, not wanting to give up any of her boys without good cause. To her, they were worth more than a couple minor league vaguely-utility prospects and a draft pick in two years. It was really just a matter of convincing her opposition she knew the true worth of the contracts sitting in her hands.

In the end she got a spare outfielder, two pitching prospects, _and_ an extra draft pick for _later that month_.

She really was very good at her job.

* * *

The clubhouse air was choked with tension. Nervously, the athletes watched from the locker room area while the Doctor and Clara stared one another down in the lounge. They waited, wondering who was going to crack first.

"Does your career have a death wish?" the Doctor asked, breaking the silence. "What on Earth possessed you to go through with that trade?"

"I don't know; does _your_ career have a death wish with that quip you made earlier on the radio about the commissioner 'just needing a wank'? You do know Americans understand that, right?"

Shots fired.

"Oh, and here I thought you liked an honest man."

"What I like is a coworker who lays off and lets me do my job without causing more commotion."

"It's my job to worry about your job."

"If you're so worried and protective, then why don't you be the general manager and I'll stay home with the kids."

"You? A manager? That's like being the head coach, dear. You can barely recall which teams are in our division, let alone know anything about coaching."

"Oh yeah? Tell me: you want me to list them alphabetically, by age, or by current standing?"

It was always weird when the Doctor and Clara fought, because the members of the Gallifreyans could never tell if they were sarcastically flirting or not.

* * *

Calling a time-out, the Doctor glowered his way up to the mound. The pitcher, although taller than him, shrunk back slightly and the catcher had to force himself to even come within three feet.

"Kanzaka, what the _fuck_ do you think you're doing?" the Doctor hissed under his breath, trying not to move his lips in case the cameras were on him. "Mendez signaled you a slider. You agreed on a slider. What did you just throw?"

"A change-up…?"

"You threw a fucking change-up, which just cost us a three-run shot and put us two behind. Do I look happy about that?"

"No…"

"What face is this, Kanzaka?"

"Um… your bollocking face…?"

"Yes. This is my bollocking face. Now give me the fucking ball and get the fuck off my mound before I change my mind and risk making the Powers That Be angry with me again, hmm?"

"Y-Yes, sir." The young man let the Doctor take the ball from his mitt and he slunk back into the dugout in embarrassment.

"Don't you dare tell your Mam I had to chew out Clark again," the Doctor said as he and the catcher waited for the relief pitcher to make his way from the bullpen.

"I think Miss Oswald will just be grateful you didn't shout this time."

"Fuck right she better be."

* * *

"Clara, how's it going?" the Doctor asked into his phone as he stared at the television set in his living room. On the screen was a roundtable of analysts making projections based on pure bias and empty conjecture. On the other end of the phone he heard discontented grumbling.

"All these gross old men keep on flirting with me… and when they aren't it's the gross young men. No one is taking either Susan or me seriously."

"It's a bleeding draft… you'd think they'd know when and where to pick their battles."

"I still wish you could have come with us—you'd scare them all away."

"You know I can't do that. You still have two more days there and I need to be on a flight to Seattle in the morning."

"Get Jimmy to manage; I thought that's what bench coaches were for."

The Doctor chuckled. "Stalkingwolf gets enough trouble out of me when I get ejected… he doesn't need me running off before a ten-game run on the West Coast."

"This makes me nervous, Doctor."

"You'll be fine. I've handled the kids while you're gone so far, so relax. Concentrate on the matter at hand and beat the Yanks at their own game."

"Thanks," Clara said. The Doctor couldn't see it, but he could hear the smile in her voice.

* * *

"What's that smell?" Clara asked as she let herself into the house. Instead of the residual smell of frozen dinners or reheated leftovers, the Doctor's house smelled strongly of garlic and rosemary and butter.

"I thought you needed something rewarding after getting leered at for four days while making some pretty decent contract negotiations, not to mention the fact that for some reason you tend not to eat on Wednesdays before you come over."

"What makes you think I don't eat?" Clara sat down at the kitchen bar and watched as the Doctor checked the contents of a simmering pot. He looked over his shoulder at her and frowned.

"You ate an entire tin of my good biscuits last time you were over on a Wednesday. If you're going to eat dinner while you're here, it might as well be a proper one."

"How abnormally kind of you," Clara smiled. She went to take her laptop from her bag and stopped. _No, not yet_. She put the bag down on the ground and nudged it aside with her foot. The Doctor walked around the kitchen island and put down on the bar two plates piled with chicken and seasoned rice and broccoli.

"Eat up," he said, sitting down next to her. Clara just marveled at the plate.

"There's no way I can eat all this! I guess you've absorbed more American habits than their slang, haven't you?"

"Just shut up and eat, okay?" the Doctor muttered through a forkful of food. "If you eat slowly, you can get in more. We've got all night."

At least she couldn't argue that point.

* * *

"Jaime? Jaime! Where'd you go?" Clara shouted into the offices. The social media manager popped out from behind a row of cubicles and looked at the general manager curiously.

"What's the matter, Clara?" he asked.

"You've got to look at this," Clara giggled. She took and dragged Jaime over to the window and pointed out over the field. "What do you see?"

"Uh… practice…?"

"Yes, but who's down there?"

Jaime was confused. Carefully, he squinted and tried to concentrate on the men darting around on the field. It took some time but one finally stuck out.

"Is that…?"

"Yes!"

"How on _earth_ does he run like that…?" Jaime marveled. He watched in blank awe as the Doctor ran from second base to the warning track in center field, upright and gliding and leading with his wrists.

"I don't know, but I think it's time you learn how to put that mobile of yours to good use," Clara grinned.

Jaime never agreed to something quicker in his life.

* * *

The Doctor really did not know why they had to designate a day specifically for the players and staff to bring their kids in as a family day sort of thing. Quite a few of the members of the Gallifreyans were childless due to a combination of young bachelorhood and a lack of wanting to change their lives at home with their wives or girlfriends. Those that did have kids, however, seemed to make up for those that didn't, which meant that there were children _everywhere_, making it virtually impossible to practice. Not even all the kids were there at the park, since some of them were still out with whatever other relative took care of them for the day—how were there still so many kids despite them not belonging to the whole team?

"Remind me later to ask Clara why she thought this was a good idea," the Doctor mused aloud as he watched Clara lead around a gaggle of grade-schoolers around the outfield. Upton, one of the dads that had brought his kids that day chuckled and leaned up against the dugout wall.

"Oh, you'd understand if you had kids," he smirked. "I'd rather let them run around like that for a few hours and let my fielding practice run late than tell them they can never come with me to work. How many kids can seriously say their dad's a professional athlete?"

"Not enough, based on that swarm," the Doctor frowned. As he watched, there was something different about Clara that he could not put his finger on that made her seem so… _different_. The way she carried herself and talked did not seem normal. He kept on staring, trying to figure out what it was that made her look so… so…

"She's good with kids, huh?" Upton said. The Doctor snapped himself out of his gaze.

"Huh?"

"I said she's good with kids, isn't she?" the outfielder repeated. "Just look at her face; she's in the wrong profession."

"So that's what that is? Being good with kids?" the Doctor asked. Upton shrugged.

"For the most part, yeah. It's a good trait to have… well, someone has to be and Mom's usually a solid bet."

"…and what the fuck is that supposed to mean…?" The Doctor glared at Upton, who had a cocky grin on his face.

"Nothing, Dad. Absolutely nothing."

* * *

It was early in the morning and the Doctor had come in to get some work done. He had even gone down to his clubhouse office, knowing the majority of the athletes wouldn't be in until at least ten. Everything was nice and quiet and peaceful until…

"Fantasy…?" Clara asked, slightly confused. "Why do you need to pretend to manage a baseball team if that's already your job?"

"The difference is that you don't trade, at least my league doesn't, and you can draft players on your team that would never be able to be together in real life. You could have a team whose contracts are worth more than the previous three White Sox's payrolls combined in one, if you're lucky, and the points you get are all based on the real players' performance." The Doctor looked across his desk at Clara, who seemed to be piecing rationality of the pastime together. "It's a lot like what you do, crossed with what I do, but is easily elevated to an obsessive level."

"It's like what we do? Really?" she asked. The Doctor shrugged.

"Yeah. I can bring up the office league if you want and show you."

"Oh, please do! This sounds interesting."

The Doctor quickly turned to his computer and logged in to the website Jaime had set up with the office league. He was about to turn the monitor towards Clara when she appeared next to him, leaning on the desk and staring at the screen.

"So, uh, this is it…" he said. Clara took hold of the mouse and scrolled, bending in half so to easier read the screen. Her eyes were locked on the page, processing, absorbing.

"Hmm… interesting…" she said. Without taking her eyes off the screen, she sat down in the Doctor's lap. He leaned back, trying to figure out a way to shove the captivated woman off without actually physically touching her.

A few minutes passed and the sweet sound of the clubhouse doors opening graced the Doctor's ears. He watched out the open door of his office, waiting for someone to walk by. Sure enough, the bench coach nearly walked in but looked up from his phone in time to see the Doctor with a panicked look on his face and flailing his arms to try to signal for help. The bench coach bit the inside of his lips and thought quickly.

"Clara…?" he squeaked. Clara snapped out of her daze and looked up at him.

"Yes, Jimmy?"

"Miss Foreman was asking for you when I came in. I think she wants to talk to you about something."

"Oh, thanks! I wonder why she didn't just call…" Clara said. She stood up and walked out of the office without another word. The bench coach looked at the Doctor and opened his mouth to question what had just happened, but the Doctor cut him off.

"We are never speaking of this, you hear me?"

"Uh…"

"_Never_."

"Okay…?"

* * *

"Ramón, what is this?" the Doctor asked, gesturing to the five-year-old clung to his leg. The shortstop put on a cleat and shrugged.

"My wife asked if I could bring him, since I ride the bench today," he explained. "I hope that's alright."

"Are you my grandpa?" the little boy asked the Doctor.

"No," he frowned. "What makes you think that?"

"Daddy comes home and talks about having a mom and dad at work. You kinda look like one of my other grandpa's friends."

"I am not your granddad," the Doctor frowned. He picked up his foot and tried to shake the little boy off. He stayed put, with his father snickering from the chair near his locker. "CLARA! HELP! YOU HAVE A DEGREE IN CHILDREN!" Clara made her way from the lounge area, weaving in and out between the other staff members and athletes until she found the Doctor still attempting to shake the child off.

"Oh, why hello there," she said, squatting so that she was eye-level with the boy. "You must be Ricardo. Your dad told me you'd be coming today."

The boy crouched down and hid his face behind the Doctor's calf, carefully peeking out. "Hello."

"My name is Clara. Would you like to stay with me while your dad works today?" Ricardo shook his head, effectively wiping his nose on the Doctor's uniform sock. "Well then, what would you like to do?"

"I wanna stay with work-grandpa."

Clara bit her thumbnail for a moment, trying to both think and not burst into laughter. "I can take you up to the offices, and let you meet the owner, and then we can have lunch and watch the game from one of the fancy suites."

"You mean, the rooms high up? The ones where the TV guys are?"

"Not the one specifically with the TV guys, but we can stop by the TV guys on the way there." The little boy looked at his father, who was also doing his best to not laugh.

"Go ahead, kiddo. You can go with Miss Oswald. She's a nice lady."

"Okay," the little boy said. He detached himself from the Doctor's leg and moved closer towards Clara. Now that he was standing he was taller than Clara, who still had her knees bent. "So, what do you do? You're in a dress, so you're not gonna play like Daddy."

"Nope. I'm the general manager. My job is figuring out who plays best with what team and trying to put them on the team that is best for them. Sometimes a player stays with one team his entire career. Other times, he has to play in many different cities before he finds the right one for him."

"Is Daddy in the right city?"

"For now, yes," Clara said. She stood up and bent in half, so that she still was closer to the boy than at full height. "I can't guarantee that he won't need to go on a super-important mission elsewhere though. Sometimes those pop up and you never know who you're going to need to send."

"Wait… so you're like that guy that tells the superheroes where to go and what to do!"

"That's right. I'm the Superhero Boss."

"Cool!" The little boy grabbed his backpack and held out his hand towards Clara. "Do you have cool stuff in your office like they do in the movies?!"

"I have some things from my home, if that's considered cool."

"Neat! Bye Dad! Bye Work Grandpa!"

"Thanks, Miss Oswald! I owe you one!" the shortstop called out as Clara was dragged from the clubhouse by his excited son. He and the Doctor watched as they vanished from sight.

"Oh, great, now I'm going to have to change my sock," the Doctor groaned, looking down at his calf. It was covered in Ricardo's snot, wet and slimy. "Ramón, teach your kid to carry a kerchief or something."

"Sure thing, _work-grandpa_," the other man snickered. The Doctor narrowed his eyes and stormed off, completely forgetting what it was he had come over to talk to Ramón about.

* * *

The Doctor was ready to kill Jack Harkness.

The marketing manager, in all of his glory and tact, had been trying to come up with different promotional items to give away before games when he came up with one of the most horrifying things he had ever seen: a bowler hat made of blue-and-white tartan.

"What the _fuck_ is this?" he spat.

"It's the giveaway item for next Friday's home game," Jack said, holding it out for the Doctor to take.

"It's an _abomination_."

"How? It's no different from the maracas we gave out in May, and those were a hit."

"We also got several complaints about them, if you remember correctly. Do you realize how _wrong_ it is to use the tartan on a bowler hat?"

"It's just plaid. That's Scottish, right?"

Taking a deep breath, the Doctor silently counted to ten before speaking again. "Yes, tartan is Scottish, but the bowler hat isn't."

"It's all English though, right? I mean… both come from the UK, which is England, and you and Clara and Jaime and several other staff members are from there, and it's not like anyone in Iowa knows the difference…"

"Call me fucking English again and I'll make sure every time you try to sleep with an intern they take one look and run away screaming," the Doctor hissed. Jack, not exactly wanting to know what he meant by that, pulled the bowler hat back and began to edge himself towards the office door.

"Okay… well… just to let you know this is the promotional item and I'll never do it again okay bye!"

The Doctor narrowed his eyes at the open door before turning back to his email. It was bad enough he had an overflow of messages thanks to someone coordinating the All-Star Game accidentally CCing him in the mailing list, but some of them were _actually important_ as they pertained to a couple of his players and their eligibility status.

Ach… just the stupidity Harkness was displaying! Being a marketing man, the Doctor was flabbergasted that he was unaware of the differences between what was offensive and what was ironically amusing. It was his _job_, after all, to know these things. If the Maraca Mayhem hadn't been enough, this might be enough to get the man a couple lessons in culture sensitivity (which he seemed to not have despite displaying an unabashed appreciation for every culture under the sun, which struck the Doctor as an odd dichotomy). The Doctor was about halfway through his inbox when Clara walked into the room, completely unannounced.

Uninvited, unannounced, and cheerfully wearing Harkness's abomination atop her head.

"Hey Doctor! Look what Jack just gave me! Isn't it cute? I guess we're giving these away next week after the break! He said I can model it for the promotional material."

Yes, the Doctor was _definitely_ ready to kill Jack Harkness.

* * *

Clara rested her head on the couch cushion and looked at her computer screen. She had the device balanced on her knees as she scrolled through some stats compilations, her feet propped up on the armrest and perpendicularly resting her back against the Doctor's shoulder. It was a lazy evening, with the television on, but muted, and the remains of takeaway littering the coffee table.

"I'm thinking about Jory," she said aloud. The Doctor flipped through the binder and found the page for the individual in question.

"Riddled with injuries… I wouldn't."

"Only for a period of three years. He's been fine since then, but has had a bad reputation since. I'd say he's worth a look." Clara paused and tapped the side of her computer. "Hey, an off-topic question alright?"

"Sure, go ahead."

"Why does Susan call you 'Uncle John'? Are you and the Foremans related?"

"No. Ben Foreman took me in as a teenager. I babysat Susan a lot when she was little, so she naturally thought I was her uncle. I'm the closest thing she's got to one, so I don't mind."

"Oh, okay," Clara said. She thought for a moment and scrunched up her face in thought. "Wait a second… I thought Susan was younger than me, but you were babysitting her as a teenager?"

"No, I never said that—I babysat her when I was in my twenties, and I'll have you know that she's thirty-four."

"No!" Clara gasped. She swung her legs around and sat properly on the couch. "She looks at least ten years younger!"

"Her mam was like that," the Doctor shrugged. "Barbara… it was almost like she stopped aging after a while. Her and Ian… now that was a match."

"Oh… I never knew…" Clara said. The Doctor patted her knee and stood up.

"Don't worry too much about it. Would you like some more water while I'm up?"

"Yeah, sure."

* * *

Clara groaned as she saw the piece of paper taped to the elevator doors. OUT OF ORDER, it read, which meant she was going to have to go down to the clubhouse herself. In her hands was a stack of papers for the Doctor—a report she had drawn up breaking down the statistics they would need to produce in the second half of the season in order to make the playoffs in either a divisional leader or wild card position. She rushed down the stairs, trying not to break out into a full run as she navigated the empty stadium. She had promised him a paper copy half an hour ago so that he could have it during his meeting with the players. This was just _lovely_.

She got to the clubhouse and was met with a cheer; the Doctor had been keeping the team hostage in the lounge area until she arrived. Clara arriving meant that the meeting could start and the sooner the meeting started, the sooner they could get back to things like practice drills and weight lifting and resistance exercises and other things they had been casually ignoring since coming back from an incredibly long road trip.

"I was beginning to worry about you," the Doctor said as Clara walked into the lounge. He was at the front of the room, half sitting and half leaning on a foldable table. "Nothing's wrong, is there?"

"No… just I couldn't get the thing to print and found out too late that the lift's busted."

"Again…? This stadium is brand new… I knew Foreman got the land too cheap. Must have been an old burial ground or something." Clara passed him the report and he gave her a peck on the lips. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," Clara smiled. She turned around to leave, but froze after two steps.

The clubhouse had gone dead-silent. Clara's eyes went wide and her face burned red-hot. She could see the players in her peripheral vision, some staring at her and some passing money between themselves. She turned her head the other way to look back at the Doctor. He had realized what had happened too late as well, with his gaze aimed at the report yet far-off and distant. His face was the same color as a beetroot, and his knuckles were white on the hand he gripped the table with. The Doctor looked at Clara and as soon as their eyes met, she ran.

Something deep in the recesses of Clara's mind knew it was a good thing that running up a flight of stairs was easier than running down them. She sprinted through the TARDIS as fast as her heels would let her, but had to stop running as she went through the offices though in an attempt to not reveal her panic. Once she was in her own office, Clara shut the door, kicked off her shoes, and sat underneath her desk, looking out the one-way glass wall at the amber soybean field on the other side of the parking lot.

'_What was that…?!_' she thought. She was shaking and her breath was ragged from running and nerves. '_He's your friend, Clara. He's a friend, a mate, a coworker… nothing more than that. He shouldn't be any more than that. You let this mum-and-dad joke run long enough_.'

Clara closed her eyes and concentrated on her breathing. There was no use in panicking. It was useless to panic. Adults don't panic.

'…_but we just kissed… in front of the team. We didn't even realize that's what we did. How did we get to this? You like him as a friend, Clara Oswald. He's your friend_.'

Friend. A friend. Friends don't kiss each other so casually like that. Friends can tease each other and go to one another's houses and crack jokes about their relationship and cook for one another and…

"Oh no…" Clara whispered to herself as the realization hit her.

The best relationships start as friendships, and sometimes, if you're not careful, friendships turn into something else entirely all too quick.

Clara inhaled sharply as the door opened. It closed again, which caused her to breathe a sigh of relief until she heard the Doctor's voice.

"Clara?"

'_Oh __**no**__._'

* * *

He hadn't meant to kiss Clara, at least not intentionally. Everything about that minute of conversation had been so light, so natural, that it just _happened_. Not long after Clara had run from the clubhouse, the bench coach took the report from the Doctor's rigid hand and chuckled.

"Go talk to her; I got this."

The Doctor nodded and forced out a thank you, his voice dry and distant. Still in a stupor, he walked out of the clubhouse with whistles and wishes of luck behind him. He kept the dazed pace as he navigated the TARDIS—there was no use in running. It was still the middle of the work day and Clara wasn't going anywhere in the middle of a work day.

Eventually he got to the door of her office. It was shut, but he knew she was in there. The Doctor carefully opened it and slid in, shutting the door behind him. The entire room was dark, but Clara's heeled shoes sitting discarded on the rug affirmed his suspicions.

"Clara?" he asked to the quiet room. Noticing that her chair was in an odd position, the Doctor began to cautiously approach the desk. He saw her toes poking out from underneath, which allowed a great weight to lift from his shoulders. He crouched down and looked at Clara, her brown eyes filled with uncertainty.

"I'm sorry, Clara," the Doctor said. He shoved her desk chair to the side and sat down with his back against the window. "I… I don't know what I was thinking that made that an okay thing to do."

"I don't know what I was thinking that didn't let it register right away," Clara replied quietly. She rested her chin on her knees and sighed. "What are we doing?"

"I thought we were sticking together. We're expats from the UK working in baseball, of all sports… we should be friends and allies."

She hesitated. "Obviously, it's gotten beyond that."

"How…? Four and a half months ago, we were at one another's throats."

"I… I don't know." Clara crawled out from underneath the desk and sat next to the Doctor, resting her head on his shoulder. She took his left hand in her right and brushed her thumb over his knuckles. "Who was she?"

"Hmm?"

"Your first wife. You couldn't have been married long."

'_No, I wasn't_,' the Doctor thought sadly. He had never thought that he would ever need to explain that whirlwind in his past, but now was a good a time as any.

"A professor, older than me by a bit. Even though we were both smart and witty and were at the top of our games, our worlds were very different. We couldn't make a marriage work with her entrenched in academia and me living and breathing an athletic sport. Any divorce is difficult, but I think the most difficult are the ones where you're still in love."

"So you couldn't find yourself wanting anyone else?"

"My life is baseball, not some trashy dime novel. I just wasn't all that interested afterwards. It was nothing against anyone nor was a thing to build up some self-important vendetta… it was just a thing. Besides, what about you, a cute northern girl who has been unspoken for this entire time? Is there a story behind that?"

"University slowly took up all my time, then my job, then relocating out here and getting used to everything _this_ job entails. I thought that maybe I'd try dating again in the offseason, when there's less pressure here."

'_I thought that too, a long time ago_.' The Doctor looked at the hand holding his, how small and petite it was. It was soft, just like her arm—he had taken hold of her arm once, two weeks prior when guiding her through Wrigley Field. They had locked elbows and strolled through the ballpark early one morning, Clara having come in to watch the Gallifreyans play one day during a three-game series against the Cubs. Fuck… it had been a date.

A date… they really had been dating for a while. Their work sessions, where Clara invaded his home and blurred that divider line he had kept up so well, had stopped being purely work a while ago hadn't they? He looked forward to them, tried to plan nicer dinners for them… he even missed them when they were on the road and Clara was still in her TARDIS office figuring things out for herself. Yeah she was a bit bossy, but she was just so _clever_. She was clever and cute and so incredibly cheery that he had failed to realize their work wall had crumbled between them quicker than Jericho.

The Doctor licked his lips in thought. '_There's no harm in it; it hasn't affected your ability to manage, and she's been doing brilliant in her position. It's worth a shot._'

"I think…" he breathed, "I think you can try sooner than that, that is if you don't mind a sour old man who shouts too much and isn't really who he was born as anymore."

"You're still Scottish, what are you talking about?" Clara chuckled.

"I haven't been Scottish for a long time, but I'm not American either. I'm like… an alien that's lived amongst humans for so long that he doesn't know if he belongs with them or with his mother race in the stars."

Silence.

"Well, I think you're very sweet… and a poet too." Clara turned towards the Doctor and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. "I think I can live with that."

"I'm not too old?"

"You may be fifty-five, but you can occasionally _act_ five, so average that out and that puts you at about thirty. You're perfect."

Smiling, the Doctor leaned closer to Clara and kissed her lightly on the lips. He paused for a moment, leaning back slightly to look at her. '_She could have her pick of any number of men_,' he thought. '_Younger, with more to offer than a workaholic's schedule for over half the year with a job that essentially boils down to league-sanctioned verbal abuse. She's young… almost too young…_'

Not even a second passed before he made up his mind. '_Fuck it_.' He then kissed her again, deeper, with her kissing back cautiously.

"Hey Clara…?" the Doctor asked as he broke the kiss.

"Yeah?"

"How would you fancy a trip to Scotland? In autumn, after the season's over?"

"I think I'd like that very much."


End file.
